


Of Sun and Spear

by Mithrandir_Istari



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Dorne (A Song of Ice and Fire), King's Landing (A Song of Ice and Fire), Westeros (A Song of Ice and Fire), Westerosi Politics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-28
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-19 09:22:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29748375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mithrandir_Istari/pseuds/Mithrandir_Istari
Summary: It is the 278th year after Aegon's Conquest, twenty years before the events depicted in both the Game of Thrones television series and the A Song of Ice and Fire novel series. This series will follow the lives of the Martell family as they scramble to adjust to the ever worsening chaos in the Seven Kingdoms, while at the same time navigating the obstacles of ruling a quasi-independent principality that is still subject to the Crown in King's Landing.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 2





	Of Sun and Spear

Golden silk table dressings fluttered in the warm breeze. It was the type of morning where the nostrils reach out and grab fine grains of salt off the humid sea air, depositing them generously on the taste buds. Summer citrus floated in the crisp spring water that filled a perfectly polished copper pitcher. The table service was gleaming gold and spotless alabaster porcelain. It was a sight that carefully straddled the thin line between elegant and ostentatious.

These were the mornings that Princess Constance, of House Martell, loved most. It was on morns such as these that she broke her fast out of doors, on her vast, beautiful veranda. Red brick outlined pale sandstone inlaid with flourishes of marble tile. The table was square, cut from a solid piece of gray granite. The large surface area tapered down to one single central column support, allowing diners to bring their pillowed stools flush with the table. A much larger ornate curule seat awaited the regent Princess at the head of the table.

There was no one to entertain, no dignitaries or emissaries or ambassadors, just a sovereign and her meal. There were of course the servants, but it had been decades since she noticed the help. They moved about the table like worker ants, slicing meat, pouring drink, buttering biscuits. For royalty, it was part of the scenery of daily life.

Golden velvet slippers cushioned the footsteps of the Princess as she approached her feast. Her sky blue gown was adorned with golden thread, stitched like rays emitted from a bright yellow embroidered sun. Constance was an older woman, traveled and wise, but still resplendent in her beauty, which did not diminish as the years rolled by.

She may be styled a Princess but she was every bit a Queen. None sat higher in the Kingdom of Dorne than she. In fact no woman held higher court in all of the Seven Kingdoms. She was a Sovereign in her own right. The throne fell to her by proclamation not by the marriage or death of a man. She had known love in her days, but never took a husband.

A tall, ashen bearded man followed her out of doors and sat opposed to her. Alfred was her consort and had been for near 30 years now. He was her bodyguard when she took him for a lover all those many years ago. Afterward, he had trained the youth of Dorne in the ways of combat. He was a broad and barrel chested man, without any pretentious ambitions. His plainspoken affectation belied a wisdom that always enamored Constance. He had taken her maidenhead and given her 5 children: Doran, Mors, Olyvar, Elia, and Oberyn, though only three made it out of the cradle alive.

Doran is her heir by birthright. He is wise, but pensive. He was a gifted fighter in his youth but horrendous gout had robbed him of whatever physicality he once had. Melancholy often took hold of him and he was not easily freed from its grasp. Despite being the elder sibling he possessed neither the bravery and charm of his younger brother or the intellect and political acumen of his sister. He had also become resentful that he did not share in his siblings' physical beauty. Both Oberyn and Elia were famous among the Dornish as much for their appearance as their station.

Elia was a woman of cunning and guile. Of all her children, Constance held Elia in the highest regard. She would someday be a queen, not merely of Dorne, but of the entirety of the Seven Kingdoms. She was a swift and gifted fighter, though, in adulthood she forswore the rigors of constant training in favor of travel and reading. She quickly learned how to deftly maneuver along the patchwork of political frameworks that girded the underbelly of society. Far more than her other siblings, she familiarized herself with the intricacies of statecraft and diplomacy.

Oberyn was her youngest and most untamed offspring. He lacked the ambition of Doran and the polish of Elia. Alfred often boasted of his son's prowess in combat and lack of fear. A favorite of his tales was that of a five year old Oberyn throwing a rock at a twelve year old lad, more than twice his age and size. Rather than retreat in the face of the larger boy's rage, young Oberyn held his ground, utilizing a broken tree branch as a weapon. The young Martell eventually subdued the threat with a precisely targeted hit to the older boy’s crotch.

By fourteen Oberyn easily bested all his combat instructors, including Alfred, his father. Even a fearsome mercenary that was captured in the Free Cities and made to spar for his life was no match for the child prodigy. The long spear became his signature weapon, yet he was equally adept with swords, knives, and all manner of weaponry. With Alfred’s help he mastered hand to hand combat. He moved so fast that he often spared without armour, believing that it only slowed him down.

Oberyn's adventurous spirit often cost his mother Constance hours of sleep. She could not bear the loss of a third child. Though, at a certain point, even she began to think that the gods of combat must favor her youngest child. It was not an exaggeration to say that the young man had never lost a fight. Some say that a duel between him and Ser Edgar Yronwood resulted in a draw. The contest was to first blood, and both combatants drew blood. However, Yronwood later died of his wounds and Oberyn is still very much alive, thus a fair case can be made that Oberyn was indeed triumphant. The closest he came to outright defeat was a duel to the death with a Dothraki horse lord on Oberyn’s nineteenth nameday. He was one well timed defensive spin away from being bludgeoned by the far larger man's battle axe.

The common thread in both of these duels was the young prince’s penchant for finding himself in bed with damn near everyone that he fancies. Indeed, he became known as much for his amorous conquests as for his combative gallantry. He is, at his core, a passionate man. The throws of that passion often found him thrust inelegantly into a firestorm of political implications. Lord Yronwood chanced upon his own dear paramour in flagrante delicto with a sixteen year old Oberyn. It was the resulting duel that earned the young prince a moniker that became synonymous with his persona.

The Red Viper, he came to be called, owing to Yronwood’s accusation that Oberyn coated his weaponry with snakes’ venom or some other such poison to ensure victory. A charge, incidentally, that the youngest Martell never disputed. The duel with Lord Yronwood placed Princess Constance in a difficult position. Being at once head of state and mother of children was an incongruous burden. What is believed best for one’s offspring is frequently not what is best for the institution that you are charged with preserving. Dorne must come first. A motto that in her long rule Constance frequently repeated in her mind. Dorne must come first.

While Princess Constance took ample time to consider the ramifications of the Yronwood incident, Oberyn saw his status grow with each contest until he wholly eclipsed his eldest brother in the esteem of the Dornish citizenry. Girls would line his pathway with freshly plucked flower petals as he traversed the capital, Sunspear. Men would make wagers on his frequent exhibitions, and remain in attendance afterward with the hope of an invitation to one of the Prince’s lavish post-victory celebrations. Such celebrations often more closely resembled orgies than victory parties.

Oberyn cared little for the kingly sport of jousting, preferring instead to stage friendly combat matches for the entertainment of his adoring public. At every amphitheater he would reserve the best seating for himself, only to then distribute them to the poor and working people, thus enshrining himself as a hero to the underclasses. Chants of Oberyn or Viper often filled the air during his fights. Oberyn absorbed it all, thriving off of the adulation. His ego swelled with every cheer. Although, should one call it an ego if the pride is justified by the record of achievements?

Graffiti tells a more complete story than any scholarly essay or raven’s scroll. One could not walk the alleyways of Dorne without seeing a plethora of Prince Oberyn effigies, painted, drawn, etched on walls, doors, and tables. Oberyn holding the dead Dothraki’s ceremonial hair braid. Oberyn embracing a viper. Oberyn with his erect phallus in one hand and a bloody spear in the other. Meanwhile Prince Doran, in what little graffiti there was of him, was portrayed as impotent, slovenly, even inept. The comparison between heir and favorite son was abundantly clear. And that fact was known to none as well as the Princess regent herself.

“Alfed?” Constance paused her morning feast to address her consort.

“My Princess?” Alfred replied, curious, and wiping his beard clean from the juices of his morning feast.

“What are your thoughts on the Yronwood affair?” She inquired and then sipped her citrus water awaiting a reply.

Alfred recoiled slightly. Not only had it been nearly three years since that cursed duel, it was also a rare occasion when anyone asked for his own opinion on a political matter, let alone the regent herself. He too sipped some water, buying time to consider his words carefully.

As a bead of water dripped off his long beard he replied simply. “Well, truth told, I would have preferred to have the pygmy fucker’s head on a pike!” He said with a belly laugh.

“Fred, your personal feelings for the late Lord Edgar aside, I really would like your insight on what to do with our youngest child.”

“Obe is a force of nature, Connie. He’s a raging river torrent. My love, I don’t think any of us, yourself included, can change the path of that river. We may use some of our influence to divert the course here and there, but Oberyn cannot be contained. He can not be tamed. I say, let the Yronwoods whine and squeal like the inbred hogs they are for another three years, and then another. They have nothing in Yronwood that’s needed here in Sunspear, less you want to cook up the rats that run free in old Yronwood Castle!”

“Yronwood Castle is the gateway to the Boneway. If it falls out of Dornish control then our access to the tin, iron, and silver mines in the Red Mountains is cut off. Not to mention the tens of thousands of mouths that the Yronwood’s fertile farmlands feed. If you ask me, father, keeping iron in our foundries and food in the bellies of our people would have been a rather astute reason for my dear brother to keep his horse in the stable, such that it was.”

“Prince Doran! I didn’t see you approaching!” Constance remarked. “Don’t lurk about, you silly frog, be seated.”

“Your grace, father, I apologize for interrupting your meal but we’ve had a raven. King’s Landing sends word. The Defiance of Duskendale has ended. The siege forces have been withdrawn by Lord Tywin, without engaging in battle. The Kingsguard, Ser Barristan Selmy mounted a solo rescue mission and freed King Aerys, single-handedly.” Doran informed them.

Alfred chuckled. “Good ole Selmy. He’s one hard sonofabitch! I’ve always liked him, e’er since we trained together as youths.”

“Doran, what news of Lord Denys?” Constance inquired, with a knowing glare.

“King Aerys’ retribution was… absolute. He and the entire Darklyn line were captured and publicly beheaded. Their bodies desecrated and their heads put atop pikes. His wife, Lady Serala of Myr, was set aflame while still drawing breath. None were spared. They say the King has descended into paranoid madness, he refuses to see anyone except the Kingsguard.”

The Princess shook her head. “Denys deserved better, the poor stupid fool. I can’t help but feel in part responsible. Afterall, it was our mandate of self governance that he wanted to emulate for himself in Duskendale. He chose the wrong Targaryen to seek a bargain with.”

“Exactly, mother. I fear that the glare of this Mad King’s rage will turn towards our peaceful principality, if we are not careful. That’s why I feel we need to keep our allies close, and placated when necessary. With murmurs of Lannister treachery, and the whisper of Lord Robert Baratheon’s ambitions at Storm’s End, we can not become complacent.” Doran gingerly lowered himself onto a stool, grimacing with the pain of movement.

Alfred spat, and chuckled. “You talk of Robert Baratheon? That great heaving sow poses no political threat. If it isn’t goin’ into a whore or comin’ out of a bottle, he doesn’t much care.”

“Your talk of placating Yronwood has me curious, what would you have me do with your brother, Doran? Disinherit him? Jail him?” Constance snipped, a hint of annoyance in her tone.

“You could strip Oberyn of his princely title, that would probably appease Yronwood.”

Alfred interjected, shooting out of his seat. “You want to strip your youngest brother of his dignity? What kind of viscous eel of a man are you, Doran?”

“ _GENTLEMEN!_ ” The princess raised her voice in frustration. “Please remember your stations and of whose company you are currently in. I have heard your opinion Alfred, and yours Doran. I shall speak to Elia at tea time.”

Alfred sat back down, begrudgingly, and Doran adjusted himself in his chair. “I apologize, mother, father. I was merely considering what we might do to preserve the highest standing for our small nation.”

“Doran, you will have your chance to make these decisions. But for right now there is no ‘ _we_.’ I am Dorne. I am the law. I am the final word, and my word is final. This evening I will make known my decision on Oberyn. Right now, I think I shall have a bath drawn. Talk of politics stiffens my skin.”


End file.
